


Love is awful

by this_is_a_love_story (diner_drama)



Series: Fleabag Fluff [2]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diner_drama/pseuds/this_is_a_love_story
Summary: “I’m hotter than God.”“You’ve certainly got better tits.”“Father!” she chuckled. “This is scandalous.”“Sorry, did you say something? I was busy thinking about your tits.”





	1. Chapter 1

In the cool light of the morning, she watched as his sun-dappled back shifted with each breath. She traced his hairline, the nape of his neck with her finger, memorising its shape.

“Ooh, scratch my neck,” he murmured into his pillow, then “fuck, I  _ love  _ that,” as she complied, shifting his head around to make sure she got to all the good spots. She worked her way around the muscles of his shoulders and down his spine, eliciting a flurry of appreciative cursing as her sharp little nails worked in circles over his skin.

Having covered the whole area thoroughly, she drew her arms warmly around him, pressing sleepy kisses into the back of his neck.

“I love you,” he breathed, contented.

“Love you too,” she mumbled into his neck, committing to memory the feeling of his skin under her hands, the solidity of his shoulders. They lay intertwined in the white sheets for a long moment, enjoying the comfort of each other’s touch. 

He rolled over and - gently, reverently - stroked the side of her face, looking as though he was seeing her for the first time, then captured her lips in a warm kiss.

“When do you have to open the cafe today?” he asked, nudging her nose with his.

“Not until eleven.”

“Great, let’s make a proper breakfast, then I can walk you to the bus stop.”

She hesitated. “Sure.”

“What?”

She made a face.

“What?”

“Just...”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Just… the seat at the bus stop is  _ incredibly _ uncomfortable,” she said in a rush, “so if you’re going to banish me from your life again, could you do it on the sofa?”

“I-”

“ _ After _ breakfast,” she said seriously, “I want pancakes.”

He laughed, a warm huff of air against her lips, and kissed her again. “I do have form for doing that now, don’t I?”

A quirk of her lips. “Mmm.”

“Well I don’t want to become predictable.”

“Heaven forfend.” Her tone was light, but she was studying him. She was pretty sure she could cope with being dumped by him for the third time - she was practically a professional at it by now - but it wasn’t how she’d ideally like to spend her day.

“I don’t think God’s winning,” he admitted, resting his forehead against hers.

“It’s at least three nil to carnal sins,” she agreed, cheerful. “Have you thought about converting to Anglicanism?”

“Eight of the things we did last night would still have been-”

“Especially-”

“Yeah, even the protestants won’t let you do  _ that _ .”

He ran his fingers through her curls and cupped her face, looking into her eyes. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I can let you go again.”

She squinted. “The sex was that good?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, running a hand over her shoulder. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and smiled back, a moment of quiet understanding passing between them. They shared an unhurried kiss, warm like sunshine. He pulled her towards him and she nuzzled into the side of his neck, pressing the lengths of their bodies together, trying to get as close as humanly possible. They moved against each other lazily, without real purpose. She hummed into the skin of his neck and they dozed peaceably for a while.

“So how does this work?” she asked, eventually. “Do you need to visit the Pope or something?”

He exhaled. “I need to pray a lot and talk to my mentors and see what the parish wants to do.”

She moved away a little to give him a look. “Sounds like a riot.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” he gestured vaguely, looking slightly lost. “I can’t give this up. So maybe I can do both? I don’t know.”

“This is inflating my ego beyond reasonable limits.”

He smiled, and ran a hand down her body. “I don’t think it’s that unreasonable.”

“I’m hotter than God.”

“You’ve certainly got better tits.”

“Father!” she chuckled. “This is scandalous.”

“Sorry, did you say something? I was busy thinking about your tits.” He paused a moment, considering. “I’m also really not into men with beards.”

“Wow, compared to God I’m pretty irresistible.”

“You’re an immodest, sinful temptress, is what you are. I was warned about women like you.”

“I was warned not to get touched up by the clergy, but here we are.”

He flopped onto his back with a melodramatic sigh. “I wish I knew how to quit you.”

She hit him in the face with a pillow. He deserved it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The priest let out a good-humoured groan. He was sprawled happily over the grass with a preposterously large fishing hat over his face and a cold tin of M&S G&T in one hand. He was wearing her favourite of his t-shirts, the one with the little buttons at the neck and long sleeves that he’d pushed up over his forearms. _God, his forearms._  
>   
>  “Leviticus is _cheating_ ,” he said, indistinctly. “That man had some serious problems.”  
>   
> “This book is the _word of God_ , you can’t just pick and choose which parts of it to take seriously.”  
>   
> He lifted up the hat to peer at her, incredulous. “You’re really not at all familiar with the history of Christianity, are you?”

Somehow, the brilliant blue of the sky, the moth-eaten tartan blanket that they’d taken from the rectory, and the sun beating down on Hampstead Heath elevated a box of cafe leftovers and some cans of pre-mixed cocktails into a genteel picnic.  
  
She lay across the blanket on her stomach, wearing a white sundress, already marred by several severe grass stains, kicking her converse in the air as she studied the book in front of her.  
  
“Thou shalt not let thy cattle gender with a diverse kind,” she read aloud, “thou shalt not sow thy field with mingled seed; neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woollen come upon thee.”  
  
The priest let out a good-humoured groan. He was sprawled happily over the grass with a preposterously large fishing hat over his face and a cold tin of M&S G&T in one hand. He was wearing her favourite of his t-shirts, the one with the little buttons at the neck and long sleeves that he’d pushed up over his forearms. _God, his forearms._  
  
“Leviticus is _cheating_ ,” he said, indistinctly. “That man had some serious problems.”  
  
“This book is the _word of God_ , you can’t just pick and choose which parts of it to take seriously.”  
  
He lifted up the hat to peer at her, incredulous. “You’re really not at all familiar with the history of Christianity, are you?”  
  
“How do you think Jesus would feel about poly-cotton?”  
  
“Sweaty and itchy, the same way everyone feels when they wear poly-cotton.”  
  
“How about labradoodles?”  
  
“You’re missing the point,” he said petulantly, propping himself up on one elbow and abandoning the hat entirely.  
  
“What is the point of forbidding mixed crops?”  
  
“The point is, fuck off!”  
  
“This is some nuanced theological discourse, Father.”  
  
“You have not entered into this discussion in good faith. I should confiscate this,” he said, jabbing the bible with an accusing finger. “It’s just giving you ideas.”  
  
She closed the book with a snap and waved it at him. “I do not permit a woman to teach or exercise authority over a man,” she recited from memory, with her best approximation of an obsequious face. “Rather, she is to remain silent. Is that right?”  
  
“Don’t you point that thing at me!” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been memorising bits of the bible just to annoy me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well that’s… a lot of commitment,” he said with a laugh, deflating. She made an undignified snort of amusement, and he flopped the fishing hat over her head.  
  
“How do I look?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes and adjusting the hat to a rakish angle.  
  
“Beautiful,” he said, after looking at her for a long, appreciative moment. “I never thought I’d get you doing Bible study on a Saturday.”  
  
“In a pure and virginal white dress, no less,” she added, “100% cotton.”  
  
“Plus about 10% grass stains.”  
  
“Yeah, I had to catch a frisbee. I don’t think _that’s_ explicitly forbidden in the bible.”  
  
Their conversations mostly went like this, verbal sparring that degenerated into good-natured bickering. Every now and then, he would look at her, suddenly completely helpless and lost, and he’d have to press her up against a wall and kiss her, even if they were in the middle of cooking dinner, or stuck on the Tube, or listening to a Very Serious Feminist Talk. It would be inconvenient, she thought, if it wasn’t so nice.  
  
On cue, he rolled over on the grass and nudged at her face with his nose, asking for a kiss. She pretended to consider it for a moment, then brought her fingers to tilt his chin upwards and pressed her lips to his. He made a happy little noise and rolled back, pulling her on top of him and into a bear hug, eliciting a squeal. She melted a bit, despite herself, and peppered his face with (embarrassing, sappy) kisses.  
  
She was feeling sixteen again, in some ways - day drinking in the park, free and unfettered under a blazing sky - except she wasn’t excruciatingly aware of her own gangly awkwardness, there were no bottles of suspiciously blue alcopops in the vicinity, and the boy she was snogging wasn’t trying to grow an ill-advised pubescent moustache. Acting like a teenager was much better, she mused, when you were actually an adult.  
  
“We should graffiti something,” she said into his chin, “or listen to melodramatic music then jump over a ticket barrier.”  
  
“First of all, I don’t want to get shot, and second of all, what?”  
  
“Nothing, never mind. Are you hungry?”  
  
“For food?” He was smiling his third-dirtiest smile.  
  
She waggled her eyebrows. “Do you want a slice of my pie, Father?”  
  
“Oh God, that actually sounds really good,” he realised, groping behind his head for the picnic basket.  
  
She pulled herself upright to pull the basket closer and retrieved a couple of takeaway boxes.  
  
“Mushroom or goat’s cheese?”  
  
“Surprise me.”   
  
The afternoon rolled by, slow like treacle, as they ate and talked and threw crumbs at each other. He strung together a daisy chain and laid it lovingly over her hair. She blew a dandelion clock in his face. It was nice.  
  
English weather being what it was, however, after a while the sky clouded over and fat raindrops started to land on their skin.  
  
“Did you bring an umbrella?” she asked as she scooped everything higgledy-piggledy into the basket.  
  
“Nope, you?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Fuck. Time to run!”  
  
He grabbed her hand and dragged her along after him, giggling like an idiot. They sprinted across the park and took shelter under an awning, damp and shivering. He rubbed her arms to warm them up.  
  
“Do you think it’s going to let up?” he said, peering hopefully at the sky.  
  
“Well, eventually.”  
  
He drew her into a warm hug, resting his chin on top of her dripping hair.  
  
“I think you’re making me wetter,” she said into his shirt. He drew back.  
  
“Sorry, sorry.”  
  
“I didn’t say to let go!” She scouted the area, assessing their options. “Bus!” she cried, spying one that looked like it was going the right way.   
  
She pulled his hand and they set off at a run, waving the rolled-up picnic blanket madly at the driver as the bus approached the stop. They piled into a seat, flushed and panting a little, and laughed at their mutual dampness.  
  
“You look like a drowned thing,” he said, ineffectively patting at her damp head with his equally damp hand.  
  
“You look like an aftershave advert,” she said truthfully, taking in his muscles under his translucent t-shirt and his handsomely tousled hair. “Unfair.”  
  
"Fuck, you're freezing," he said, taking her hands in his.  
  
"It was your stupid deity that made it rain."  
  
"Well, he does sometimes like to do me little favours."  
  
"Favours? You're just as wet as me."  
  
He waited until they were about to step off the bus before responding.   
  
"I can see your nipples through your dress," he whispered, then sprinted away before she could punch him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, what did you buy?" he asked, trying - and failing - to sound indifferent.
> 
> "Not much, actually. They had a copy of Priests Gone Wild 3 but I haven't seen the first two."
> 
> "You'd miss out on some of the finer nuances of the plot."
> 
> "I think it would prevent me from appreciating the real artistry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up a little steamier than I meant it to. Oops!

He was wearing the purple robes today, she was pretty sure. It seemed like a purple robes sort of day, and they were his favourites. She’d tried to sneak a glance as she’d walked in to the church, but all she could see was Pam’s excited face in the front row, devotedly hanging on to every word of the sermon.   
  
She wasn’t planning on settling in the pews today - her target was the side office where she knew the priest would escape to as soon as the parishioners had left. What she was planning wasn’t an ambush, exactly, but she liked being able to surprise him sometimes.   
  
Besides, he looked _really_ cute in the robes.  
  
Moving aside a stack of hymn books, she made herself comfortable on the countertop and listened to the sermon that she could hear faintly drifting through the corridor. Once he reached the bit about Moses, she knew it would be around the right time to put the kettle on.   
  
“Why did Moses part the red sea?” she heard, and groaned internally in anticipation. He’d practised his speech on her a few times over the week and she’d tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade him not to include this bit.  
  
“To get to the other side!” she mouthed along with him as he finished. Fucking terrible. Unforgivable.   
  
_Adorable_.  
  
The tea was almost finished brewing, and she was fishing around in a drawer to find a teaspoon, when she heard a startled “Fuck!” behind her and grinned to herself.  
  
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you really need to give me some warning or… something,” he gasped.   
  
“Tea?” she asked, innocently. He _was_ wearing the purple ones.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” he said, distracted. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “You look lovely,” he said helplessly.  
  
It was just an ordinary red sundress, but she knew it was his favourite, especially when she paired it with red lipstick.   
  
“Thanks, so do you.”  
  
“It was a purple robes kind of day,” he said absently, drinking in the sight of her. She turned back to the tea, a smug little smirk playing at the corners of her lips.   
  
She felt him approaching behind her and the smirk became a full-on grin. He pushed his body into hers, pinning her against the counter and grinding his hips in a truly ungodly way. She let out a little whimper.  
  
“Fuck, I want you,” he breathed, his hands ghosting over her stomach. He kissed and bit the junction between her neck and shoulder, making her moan a little and push back into him. She grabbed his arse and pulled him closer, eliciting a satisfied hiss.  
  
“I thought you wanted tea,” she teased, rolling her hips in just the right way to feel him gasp into the back of her head.  
  
Breaking into their moment, Pam’s voice sounded from down the corridor. “Father, I’m going to pick up the new service booklets from the printers.”  
  
He let out a small, strangled noise like a dying squirrel. They had just enough time to separate and straighten their clothes before she came barrelling into the room.  
  
“Oh hello love,” trilled Pam happily. “Are you making tea? I’m gasping.” She managed, inexplicably, to pound back an entire cup of boiling hot tea in one gulp and smiled benignly at them before grabbing the parish credit card and making her exit.  
  
They burst out into giggles once they were alone, and he busied himself making a fresh cup of tea before he did something stupid like kiss her again.  
  
"What brings you to my church?"  
  
"Oh, I've just been doing some shopping."  
  
"Oh, fun." He dropped the used teabags into the bin and finished preparing her cup of tea (milk, no sugar, just how she liked it).   
  
"Did you know there's a sex shop just across the road from you?"  
  
"No," he chuckled, "I hadn't noticed."  
  
"They've got shirts like yours, if you ever need one in an emergency."  
  
"Sounds useful."   
  
She accepted her tea, their fingers brushing. "They're made of rubber, but I'm not sure the congregation would notice."  
  
He regarded her over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowed in amusement. "That sounds awful."   
  
"Well, whatever gets you there."  
  
"So, what did you buy?" he asked, trying - and failing - to sound indifferent.  
  
"Not much, actually. They had a copy of Priests Gone Wild 3 but I haven't seen the first two."  
  
"You'd miss out on some of the finer nuances of the plot."  
  
"I think it would prevent me from appreciating the real artistry."  
  
"So, what _did_ you buy?" He was still feigning disinterest, drinking his tea.  
  
She adopted her most suspiciously innocent look. "Oh, just a twenty-inch dragon cock," she said diffidently.  
  
He snorted in laughter and started to sputter, getting a lot of tea up his nose.   
  
"You deliberately waited until I was mid-sip!" he accused.   
  
"Would I do that?" The innocent look was still in place. He just glared.  
  
"Actually the dragon cock was fifty quid," she admitted.  
  
"Bit expensive."  
  
"Yeah, I decided it was too much money to spend on a joke object, but I did get.."   
  
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out an unassuming-looking neatly coiled length of cotton rope, and threw it to him.  
  
"Were you ever a boy scout?" she asked.  
  
"No," he said, eyes wide as he stared at the coil of rope in his hand. His mouth was beginning to water as he considered the things - the _many, many_ things - they could use it for.  
  
"I, uh, I'm good with knots though." He was already mentally going through the steps for making a column tie as he stroked the soft rope, imagining her wrists bound, her body laid out underneath him as he made her whimper and cry out in pleasure and pain. He'd flat-out refused to tell her what to wear in the mornings, on principle, but he could sometimes be prevailed upon to tell her what to do in the bedroom, and the way she just _fell apart_ when he used his commanding tone, soft and insistent, was truly a sight to behold.   
  
He met her eyes and knew that she could tell what he was thinking, a knowing smirk on her cherry-red lips.  
  
"Is that the kind of thing they teach you in seminary school, Father?"  
  
He growled and pushed her up against the wall before she could react, pinning her wrists above her head. They were vaguely aware of the sound of breaking china, but neither of them was paying much attention. Her breath hitched a little in her throat, and he kissed her hungrily as she playfully struggled in his grip. He nipped at her wicked lips, and ran a hand up under her dress, gripping her thigh and pulling her closer.  
  
They were both thoroughly out of breath, faces smeared with her lipstick, by the time he finally broke away to gasp for air. He rested his forehead against hers, panting a little.  
  
"Bed?" she asked, her chest heaving and pupils blown.  
  
He nodded mutely and released her arms. She let out a pleased hiss, rubbing her sore muscles, and gave him another peck on the lips.  
  
"What.." he shook his head, collecting his wits. "What did you have in mind, exactly?"  
  
"I was thinking you could tie me down and ride me mercilessly until I beg you to stop. Oh, and by the way," she added as an afterthought, pausing in the doorway and giving him a devilish look over her shoulder, "my safeword is 'safeword'."  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he said reverently, and followed her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course her safeword is "safeword".


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The priest was watching her, having heard the exchange. He looked as though he wanted to say something disapproving, but then he shook his head and started to laugh.
> 
> "You're _terrifying_ ," he murmured as he passed her.
> 
> She shrugged. "I try."

Another week, another Chatty Wednesday. The café was practically full, and she was rushed off her feet as usual, but fortunately nowadays she had a little help.

"Could you pass me the-" she started. The priest handed her the knife before she'd finished her sentence, then kissed her on the cheek and carried on grating cheese with a contented smile.

To nobody's surprise, he _loved_ Chatty Wednesdays and would spend hours every week scrubbing down tables and making new friends in the café, wearing his hoodie backwards so that Hillary and Stephanie could hitch a ride in the hood as he made his rounds.

It was _adorable_.

"That's probably enough cheddar now," she said after a while, "I still have some of the pre-grated stuff."

"Sure," he said, scraping the cheese into a bowl and stripping off his gloves. "I'll just make another couple of coffees and take the sandwich orders while you're doing the veg, shall I?"

"Thanks, sugarkitten."

He wrinkled his nose. "Safeword, ugh." They were still working on finding terms of endearment for each other that weren't completely disgusting.

The customers loved him, and she was pretty sure that Joe got a bit of a thrill from having an actual _man of God_ to talk to about the intricacies of insuring churches that were built before 1840. Personally, she most enjoyed the sight of him making his way around the café with an apron over his jumper - not the cosy jumper with the thumb holes that she'd unofficially stolen from him several weeks ago, but the form-fitting one that looked _really_ good around the arms.

He bent down to give the animals some carrot sticks and Hillary squeaked impatiently.

"In a minute," he said in a soft voice, as though the guinea pig could understand him.

With a smile, she watched him as he walked around with his little notebook, taking sandwich orders and taking a genuine interest in the people he was talking to.

She tied a fresh apron around her waist, wincing a little as the strings rubbed against the _fucking carpet burn_ that she'd inexplicably gotten in the small of her back (even after thinking about it for a long time she couldn't work out what the hell position could have caused such a thing).

A group of very hungover-looking young women at a corner table gave her looks of overwhelming gratitude when she brought them their coffees.

"Hey," whispered one, who was clearly still a little the worse for wear. "Your hair is so pretty. What do you put in it to get it to curl like that?"

"Um, water."

The girl nodded, as though she had been handed a great secret, and slumped over the table, pillowing her head on her arms.

In the opposite corner, a small child was climbing up an unshaven man who was radiating exhaustion.

"Hey!" shouted the kid when he noticed her. "Why have you got such a big nose?" he asked, clearly expecting an answer.

Leaning close, she adopted her best wolf-in-grandmother's-clothing expression and said, low and threatening, "all the better to _smell_ you with, my dear."

Eyes wide, the boy retreated behind his father and sat quiet, subdued. The man shot her a thankful look.

The priest was watching her, having heard the exchange. He looked as though he wanted to say something disapproving, but then he shook his head and started to laugh.

"You're _terrifying_ ," he murmured as he passed her.

She shrugged. "I try."

A jingle of the bell over the door announced Joe's entrance into the café. Spying the priest, he pulled him into a warm handshake and they sequestered themselves into a corner to start their usual weekly chat. She grabbed two cups from the dishwasher and set some tea to brew - Earl Grey for Joe, and Lyon's for the priest, strong enough to stand a spoon up in.

By the time she returned to their table they were both laughing companionably.

"You're a real fountain of wisdom, wow," the priest was saying, with sincere fondness.

Joe slapped his thigh. "I've survived many trips around the sun, my boy!"

" _Don't_ tell a Catholic that the earth goes around the sun, Joe," she interjected, setting down the tray. "It'll get you set on fire."

"People are never going to let that go, are they?" said the priest, disgruntled. She patted him on the head absently and headed back across the room to attend to the panini maker.

By closing time, the evening was drawing in and stalwart Joe was the only patron remaining, helping stack plates and cups onto the counter.

"Thanks Joe," she said. "See you next week?"

"Always, my dear, always!" he responded, picking up his hat from the coat rack on his way out of the door and bowing his farewells with a chivalrous flourish.

The priest was talking in a low voice to Stephanie and Hillary, who always protested at being removed from the soft cradle of his jumper and tucked back into their hutch. "Look," he said in his most coaxing tone, "there's your cucumber and your bed. I'll be back to see you soon, stop making a fuss."

"Maybe you should sing them a lullaby," she suggested, half-serious.

"It might help - I'll do Raglan Road if you do a duet with me."

"I don't sing," she laughed, shaking her head.

He straightened, closing the clasp on the hutch and drawing her into his embrace. "Even when you're on your own? In the shower?"

"When was the last time I actually had a shower on my own?"

He paused, defensive. "Look, someone has to wash your tits."

"So this is a public service?" she said in an amused tone.

"Yeah." His hand ghosted over her chest as if to illustrate his point.

"Thank you for your great sacrifice, Father."

"You're welcome. Speaking of which, do you fancy a bath? I'll even take the tap end."

She relaxed, realising how tired she was. "That sounds nice."

"No problem at all... honey bun?" he ventured.

"Jesus, no. Honey bun? That's disgusting."

He grinned and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll run us a bath."

"OK but please don't use one of those fancy bath bombs this time. I never want to have to wash glitter out of my vulva ever again," she shouted up the stairs at his retreating back.

"I make no promises," he said, and because he's an idiot and because she loves him, she follows him upstairs to supervise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your godmother just gets a little-"
> 
> "Unsettling?"
> 
> "Yeah! She stares like she's going to fucking eat me, it's scary." He rested his forehead against hers and let out a breath. "Once more unto the breach."
> 
> "Stiffen the sinews," she murmured, straightening his jacket. "Summon up the blood."
> 
> "No! Don't summon any of my blood."
> 
> "OK, no blood."
> 
> "OK."
> 
> "Some stiffening."
> 
> "No!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter at last! The next thing I write will probably be gratuitous Fleabag smut because life is short and you all deserve it. Thanks for your comments through this - they have meant the world to me.
> 
> 100 points to anyone who gets the crossword clue in this chapter.

Although she was, technically, the professional chef out of the two of them, when it came to pancakes he was the undisputed king. The recipe - which was top secret and had been handed down through generations of his family - required actual buttermilk (which she hadn't realised could still be bought in the 21st century) and the batter had to be left to rest for half an hour for some unknown historical reason. She'd tried to persuade him that they would go brilliantly with a bit of bacon, but he'd just looked at her as though she had personally killed his grandmother, so she'd taken down the brown sugar from the cupboard instead and let the matter go.

"Six letters," she called over to him from where she was sprawled inelegantly over the sofa, doing the crossword. "Disheartening vulnerable scrapes for hunted redhead." She was wearing his buffalo bill t-shirt, which was comically large on her small frame, and the pyjama trousers with the little guinea pigs on them that he'd given her for her birthday. "Ends in an S."

"Does it have a question mark at the end?" he asked, eyeing the butter in the frying pan to make sure it browned _just_ the right amount. He was wearing his most comfortable pair of trackie bottoms, which were riding low on his hips, and she was trying not to look, because if they had sex right now the pancakes would never get made.

"Yeah."

"I fucking hate the ones with question marks at the end."

She loved their lazy Saturday routine, especially on cosy days like this, where the rain was lashing against the windowpanes and they could wrap up together in a blanket and bicker over the crossword.

Later, they would have to head out for an early Christmas lunch at dad's place and she'd have to remember how to be polite after spending so much time with the only person apart from her sister who she could call a wanker on a daily basis and who would love her anyway.

There was a postcard, in pride of place on her mantelpiece next to the statue of her mother and a photograph of Boo. It was from Claire and Klare, who had visited some kind of Santa Claus village in Lapland and made the acquaintance of several reindeer. She was looking forward to seeing her sister later; she had been particularly laid-back in her own, neurotic way for the last few months. On her last visit Claire had left her laptop behind and she'd nearly had to _actually run through the fucking airport_ to give it back to her.

She smiled at the postcard, feeling glowing and warm.

"I got a terrible one earlier," she called out, picking up the newspaper. "Eleven letters, 'one who remarks sounds like a humdrum tuber'."

He groaned in anticipation. "Go on."

"Commentator."

" _Ugh_." He busied himself pouring batter into the pan.

She made a mental note to share the clue with Claire later - she'd got her sister to snort laughing once and she was so embarrassed that she made it her life's mission to do it again. Wordplay might be the key.

"I don't know why you insist on doing the cryptic," he groused from the kitchen, without malice. "It's like a constant barrage of terrible puns."

"You just answered your own question."

"Come and set the table, food's nearly ready." He nodded over at the fridge, "and could you grab the-"

"Yep," she responded, and picked up the orange juice, sneaking one last lingering look at the bacon.

"I saw that," he said without turning around.

"Lying is a sin, Father."

"Fuck you," he said with a smile, passing her a plate stacked with perfect, fluffy pancakes.

"Fuck you too," she responded, giving him a grateful kiss.

After breakfast, she rested her head on his shoulder and ruefully contemplated the washing up. For someone who was usually very sure with his hands, he managed to make a spectacular mess when cooking (once, he'd managed to get flour inside his belly button despite being fully clothed, and neither of them had yet worked out how). Her kitchen now looked like a bomb had hit it, as it usually did after he made breakfast, but she put up with it for love and pancakes. She made a mental note to clean it later, and flopped back onto the sofa.

"You have to get dressed," he said, nudging her with his foot.

"I can't, I've died of pancakes."

"Come on." He picked her up and bodily moved her into the bedroom, while she pretended to huff in outrage. In reality, the fact that he could lift her in his arms like she weighed nothing at all was _brilliant_ , and had come in very handy after her sister's hen party when he'd found her throwing up kahlua into a ditch and had to get her home.

He deposited her on the bed and turned away, but she pulled him back to land on top of her.

"We could just stay at home instead," she entreated, nuzzling into his neck.

"Don't tempt me," he murmured, allowing himself a kiss, which turned into two kisses, which turned into fifty kisses or so. Eventually, he pulled away and she made a frustrated little noise.

"If you're good, I'll wear the shirt you like."

She perked up a little. "The green one?"

"The green one with the sleeves," he confirmed.

"OK," she said, pushing him back off the bed.

"So easy," he muttered, pulling the shirt out of his side of the wardrobe.

"I've been called that," she said brightly, wriggling into a pair of tights. "My teachers used to say I was difficult, though, so I don't know who to believe."

"Maybe I'm just good at doing you."

"God," she groaned, "you should be _writing_ the crossword."

"Ooh, maybe I should add one to the Parish newsletter."

"Oh don't, then I'd have to start reading it."

"I know you read it. I've _caught_ you reading it."

"Shut up."

He watched her contort her body to try to fasten the buttons on the back of her dress for a long minute before relenting. "Do you need some help with that?"

"Yes please, I usually get strangers on the bus to fasten this one for me."

"There you go. You look very... respectable?"

"Ah, the illusion is complete, then."

She brushed some imaginary fluff off his collar and regarded him with an appraising look. The dark green shirt was buttoned neatly up to his neck and the sleeves were just tight enough for the bulge of his biceps to strain the fabric a little. Allowing herself one affectionate stroke to his arm, she reached up to tousle his hair a little more and run her hand over the light stubble on his jaw.

"Perfect," she decreed. "Shame you're not wearing the special priesty collar though."

"Your godmother just gets a little-"

"Unsettling?"

"Yeah! She stares like she's going to fucking eat me, it's scary." He rested his forehead against hers and let out a breath. "Once more unto the breach."

"Stiffen the sinews," she murmured, straightening his jacket. "Summon up the blood."

"No! Don't summon any of my blood."

"OK, no blood."

"OK."

"Some stiffening."

"No!"

Between bouts of bickering and some gratuitous groping they somehow managed to bundle themselves up in coats and scarves and make their way out into the cold, wet December day together, determined to get through lunch while remaining proper and well-behaved.

Her godmother was predictably awful, but she heroically contained her responses to muttered offhand comments (with the pigs in blankets), side-eyed looks (over the turkey), sarcastic asides (through a mouthful of mince pie), and wry glances (over the rim of a glass of port), and he met her eye each time, smiling his gentle smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that cryptic clue again: " _Disheartening vulnerable scrapes for hunted redhead?_ " 6 letters, ends in an S. First person to get the answer right gets a cookie.
> 
> Never done a cryptic crossword before? You're in for a treat. [Here's a tutorial to get you started](https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2010/may/03/how-to-solve-cryptic-crossword).

**Author's Note:**

> [Check out my tumblr for more fleabag content](https://this-is-a-love-story-fleabag.tumblr.com).


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